, except the ticking of the clock in the next room.
Madge seemed counting every swing of the pendulum. They seemed like the
last grains of sand in the hour-glass of her brother's life, and his
breath was getting shorter. At length she could hardly find out whether
he breathed or not. She thought of what the doctor said to Mr. Smith:
"If he does not rally, there will probably be a short period of
consciousness before he dies, and then he will go off quietly." She
supposed that period was over now, and Raymond would never speak to her
again,--Raymond, her pride, her glory. He was slipping away from her,
and soon she should have no brother. Poor little Madge! Years afterwards
she could recall that scene more vividly than any other in her life--the
look of everything around her; the lazy flies creeping up the
window-pane, and one or two which were buzzing about her head; the glass
standing on the chair by Raymond's side, which she had held to his lips
but a few minutes before, and which she knew he would never drink from
again; the way in which she had smoothed the bed-clothes and moved his
pillow; and that still, white face, so inexpressibly dear to her, that
rested upon it. There was a step beside her, and looking round she saw
Mrs. Smiley. The good woman started as she saw Raymond. Then drawing
Madge away, she said tenderly, "Poor lamb, come in here now;" and she
tried to induce her to leave the room.

"No, no! I must stay," Madge said vehemently, and she sprang to
Raymond's side. "Mrs. Smiley, he isn't dead."

"Then he looks like it. Come away, Miss Madge."

"But he isn't. He breathes still."

Yes, there was just a feeble pulsation, so feeble that it was hardly
discernible, but it brought new hope to Madge's heart. She moistened his
lips with a stimulant, then knelt beside him, with her eyes fixed upon
him in intense anxiety. The moments seemed like hours. But at last there
came a little short sigh, and then the breathing became more soft and
regular. The lines of the face were relaxed, and Raymond was sleeping
peacefully.

"If he sleep, he will do well," were words spoken long ago. And so it
was.

When the doctor came again, he pronounced his patient better, and told
Madge that he might recover.

That night, about twelve o'clock, as she was sitting beside the bed,
keeping watch, Madge heard a low, weak voice saying her name. She bent
down her head, and Raymond whispered, "Madge, I have had such a happy,
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